In a dark room, naked Draven Torres clasps the arms of a St. Andrew’s cross while taskmaster Tony buff flogs him. Draven’s coal-black hair is waxed into a Mohawk of sorts. His, high, round buns reflect the light. Draven presses his neck into the ‘V’ of the cross as if it were some kind of guillotine. Tony coaches him, offering reassurances; then he resumes the flogging, faster and harder than before. Draven grimaces; tears run down his cheeks. Tony stops. He lays his cheek upon one of Draven’s muscular shoulders, rubs his back. Then the flogging commences again: shoulders back … ass … legs rest. Draven’s cries split the silence. Tony hugs him. Draven signals for more. He could make it stop at any time, but he doesn’t. Tony swaps one flogger for another. Draven’s back is criss-crossed with raised welts. He releases his grip on the cross, but still he wants more.